The Rosewood Ring
by Cat's Dog
Summary: Aedan Cousland has been the Teyrn of Gwaren for three years now and for three years he has been haunted by the rosewood ring that Morrigan left with him before her disappearance into the wilds.
1. Chapter 1

Aedan was perpetually accompanied the impish man Mancer. He was a hangover from the days of Teyrn Loghain, a retainer and a dutiful seneschal of his house, but his loyalties did not appear to extend beyond the opulent estate that Aedan had inherited upon the end of the Fifth Blight. Mancer was a man whose interests lay solely in the betterment of Castle Gwaren, whoever sat on its chair was simply the personage he was forced to appeal to for his own individual plans. There was a strange feeling of unease for Aedan when he considered how seamlessly he had transitioned from one Teyrn to the next, daring to wonder for a moment if Howe's men had found similarly turncoat retainers when he had pillaged Castle Cousland.

Aedan Cousland's arrival at Castle Gwaren was a moment of revelry – a façade, he later learned, put on by the servants out of a sense of duty rather than any feeling of genuine mirth at their new lord. He was little more than an object to them, a continuation of formalities that they had long since abandoned any sense of attachment to. Moreover, the presence of their Teyrn was almost like an unwelcome change of pace. Loghain Mac Tir had taken up the Teyrndom of Gwaren as a matter of formality, as the champion of Fereldan's independence it would have been absurd to expect him to not take on such a title – but his heart had been in service of the kingdom, in whatever capacity his mind and his heart had led him to. That meant weeks on the field and an increasingly large amount of time in the capitol. That meant that the only task Mancer had truly been left with was keeping an eye on the idle and increasingly lazy servants.

Indeed, Aedan's only true merit he found in the seneschal was that he was as annoyed as the new Teyrn was at the corners being cut by the house servants. With no one routinely sleeping in the official or the guest chambers, guests of Gwaren instead being differed to Denirem, and the halls remaining dormant, man would work for little more than half their shifts and accomplish only a handful of their tasks – and what was worse they would fight back if the fact was pointed out to them.

Mancer assured Aedan that he could return the discipline in a matter of weeks at most – at worst many of the servants would simply be replaced. Aedan had nodded his head slowly at that, while being quietly amused at the fact that it was the Elves of all the servants who had not seemed to miss a step in their master's absence.

For everything else, however, Mancer was a nuisance. Aedan recalled their first meeting and how he had desperately wished to unleash his hound on the man for his words. It was the kind of slithering, viper-like contempt that one could only learn how to wield in the service of politics, and one the target could only understand if they had been raised at court. The impertinent scathes were the kind one could easily get away with in a crowded room, leaving just enough doubt to wonder if there genuinely was mockery in the tone – and it was not so much the barbs that aggravated Aedan as the contempt that lay behind them, the intent to so prejudicially air grievances that had been unearned.

Their first true ruckus had been over the tapestries depicting Loghain's defeat of the Orlesians. They were classically designed in the Fereldan style, simple using only browns, whites and blacks that told a stunning tale of his desperate marches, the manner in which he would keep his soldiers rallied despite the frigid colds of Fereldan's winter nights, and their final triumph over the Empress. Mancer had been beside himself when Aedan had made it clear that they would stay as they had in the main hall.

The small, plump had furrowed his brow with a tight indignation, as though the thought had been some sort of threat against his manhood. Aedan had recoiled a bit as he watched him, tilting his head at what could have certainly passed for a side show - though the servants about the room remained indifferent. They were apparently accustomed to such outbursts from the man, but Aedan was intent on breaking him of it soon enough and he had refused to relent.

They were a matter of history – Loghain's blood was in the halls of Castle Gwaren and regardless of the deeds at the end of his life, the estate's heritage was Loghain's heritage. Mancer refused to see it that way.

They had butted heads on seemingly every other detail of the castle's décor, the schedules for the servants, even the clothes that Aedan would wear as he simply rode his horse in the woods. Mancer was like an inseparable cancer of agitation that would one day prove to be terminal for Teyrn Aedan Cousland – and that name was the source of the day's current argument with the seneschal.

"There is already a considerable upset in the council," Mancer said in a voice that was like a blanket of dry leaves against Aedan's skin. "There only remain two Teyrndoms left and frankly, despite your worthiness of the greater of the two, the nobility quickly forgets merit and begins to look at the politics of it all. It is already whispered at court that King Alistair is sandwiched between two Couslands."

Aedan was seated on a veritable throne – though he was loathe to call it such. Ferelden did not operate like the Orlesians or Antivians, the power of the king floated upwards from the banns, the arls, and the teryns – it was only by their good grace did he rule, which made his title alone, much less Aedan's actions at court, the kingmaker. But even with all that responsibility and all that power he felt humility was in order – it was simply referred to as the Teyrn's chair.

The main hall of Castle Gwaren was notably empty however, and Mancer was beginning to forget his formalities.

Aedan waved a dismissive hand in the air. "I am Aedan Cousland, Teyrn of Gwaren, and that is how it will remain."

"Sire," Mancer insisted in a tone one would use when trying to explain basic math to a toddler, "you will always be a Cousland, this is true. But your surname should be in the old style. You are Teyrn Gwaren of House Cousland, and it shall lend such a credence to your-,"

The main hall's great oak doors burst open to a host of knights that blessedly saved Aedan from any of Mancer's retorts. The knights' armor shimmered in the flickering torch light and it was the first indication to him just how long he had been sitting on listening to Mancer – the sun had long since descended and they were kept awares only by candle and torch light.

Their faces were covered entirely in a silver colored steel, but their shields were emblazoned with the brown hounds of Ferelden – they were knights of the King, and whatever message they carried was of a far greater weight than the ramblings of Mancer. Teyrn Aedan Cousland rose to his feet to greet them, offering them the same reverence he would if Alistair had entered his court chamber with a long, gracious bow.

Mancer offered a similar token greeting, though it was a hollow and contemptible thing, a mechanical recreation of actions without their due respect. The knights did not bother to regard him.

They each removed their helms and took a knee before the Teyrn of Gwaren. Aedan recognized the leader of them, a Ser Kyle who had forsaken a number of opportunities at inheritance to serve the legendary Grey Warden King.

Aedan gestured for them to rise, and with them rose Mancer. There was a momentary tenseness that lingered in the air as they regarded him before Aedan cast a disdainful glower on the seneschal.

"We have business to discuss. Begone," he said curtly, his tone carrying the violence of his travels that left no room for argument. Mancer puffed out his chest for a moment, then finally shirked away and slinked into the shadows, disappearing from view entirely as he made his way for the exit from the main hall. Satisfied with this, Aedan turned his attention back to Ser Kyle who seemed to have the slightest hint of approval in his expression.

"How can I help knights of Denirem?" Aedan asked, as much out of gratefulness for driving the imp Mancer away. That alone would have merited their audience. They each had a look of gratification and duty on their faces, a refreshing sight indicating that the news they harbored was not ill.

Ser Kyle stepped forward. "I bid that you must make your castle ready," he said in a commanding voice, the kind of tone no mere knight would take with a Teyrn unless under direct order from the king, "King Alistair, Maker shine upon his name, shall soon bless your estate with a visit, and all preparations must be made."

Aedan felt a smile suddenly swell his features which brought a warm nod of approval from Ser Kyle. "Excellent," he said approvingly, "I shall see to it. Tell the King that he may take my quarters." It was a mere matter of courtesy – but after nearly a year spent enduring the wilds of Fereldan the private chambers of Castle Gwaren seemed an overly warm and restless place. He would have been perfectly content sleeping in the wretched stink of the stables as long as it was beneath the stars.

But a strange restlessness washed over Aedan at the thought of Alistair's visit. Ever since Alistair's ascension to the throne Aedan had reclused himself in Castle Gwaren, appearing only at token moments in order to fulfill his duties as the commander of the Grey Wardens. It was easier that way – the Blight was easier forgotten…Morrigan was easier to forget. Alistair's arrival was his own past pursuing him to the high stone walls of his castle, leaving a sinking feeling in his gut that he had done well to suppress.

He did his best to hide the grimace from his face, though he suspected that he was unable to hide the truth from the observant knights who stared on at him. Ser Kyle in particular showed no signs of having been fooled by his weak attempt at hiding his dismay, but the knight wisely said nothing.

"We shall report to his majesty at once," Ser Kyle said, knowing that his place did not involve mediating the affairs of high lords and their personal despairs.

The Knights rose from their bow all at once and filed out of the room, leaving Aedan alone – though he had learned his first day as Teyrn that alone simply meant that he had ten personal guards instead of twenty. There was no privacy for a man of his stature, not any more. Such a privilege was lost the moment Alistair had blessed him with Loghain Mac Tir's lands the day after the end of the Blight. That inaugural ceremony seemed a lifetime ago – if only because Aedan had done such a miraculous job pretending that he had begun a new life as the Teyrn of Gwaren.

Some had tried to remind him of his past deeds – the slaying of the Archdemon, the saving of Ferelden…indeed his very rule as Teyrn of Gwaren was due to those very days. But they were a dark and morbid time for more reasons than just the arrival of the Darkspawn horde, a time that brought with them tides of anguish and pain that he did his best to try to blot from his memory.

Many in the kingdom were still attempting to recover and rebuild their lives years after the end of the Blight: wives were still mourning fallen husbands and fathers, communities still lived in the shadow of fear, indeed, even Ozrammar still carried the scars of that terrible conflict. While it was difficult to find a part of his body that had not been marked, in some way, by his battle with the Darkspawn, Aedan's heaviest burden was the still open wound in his heart.

He had hoped, as Leliana had told him, that that wound would one day heal, even in part. The Orlesian had been wrong however, the pain was as fresh now as it was the day of Alistair's inauguration. The only way to numb the throb in his chest and the burn in his stomach was to simply ignore it and pretend that it had never happened.

Aedan tried to do that now as he shuffled to go find Mancer – at the very least he could force the man to busy himself in preparing for the coming visit from Alistair, that at least would keep the seneschal out of the Teyrn's hair.

_The throne room of Denirem's royal palace seemed like it had been ready to burst, every occupant that could receive leave to enter and watch the crowning of the already talked about Alistair had insured that they were as close as the guards and the rest of the crowd would allow them. As Aedan looked out amongst them he suspected that there were even many that had managed to squeeze their way in off of the street without any form of special dispensation or invitation. The king's guard saw assassins lingering in every corner, but Aedan's hand rested comfortably on his sword, and though it seemed impossible to imagine that any would wish harm on one of the Grey Wardens responsible for the destruction of the Archdemon, Aedan trusted that any assassins not dismayed by common decency would be swept up by the former Antivan Crow Zevran._

_Standing in front of Aedan, Alistair appeared to shrink away from the priestess that held the crown in her hand, though with a quick glance at the Grey Warden that had accompanied, even led him against the Blight, he grew a swell of strength and approached proudly. There was something altogether assuring in the wake of Loghain's reign of terror to view their imminent king resistant to the power and the responsibility and the slight murmur of approval that washed over the crowd showed that the people of Denirem agreed._

_Alistair approached and bowed reverently as the priestess completed her chant and placed the crown on the new king's brow – and a cheer went up from the crowd as the weight seemed more of a burden than a pleasure to the Grey Warden. Alistair looked down at the crowd, his eyes a quick search until they locked in on Aedan Cousland. His eyes brightened immediately and he gestured for him. Aedan did not protest and ascended to the throne at his king's side, then turned to look out at the crowd._

_With the throng of people inside the throne room it appeared impossible to distinguish any one individual from another, it was a sea of faces no more familiar to him than the endless leaves on the trees of the Dales. If he focused just hard enough he would catch a glimpse of Leliana between two taller heads, he thought he might have spied Wynne, wrapped in heavy robes and with a look of disbelief and admiration the likes of which she possessed the first time she'd laid eyes on the Urn of Andraste. _

_One of the only figures he could plainly make out was the indomitable, dark skinned figure of the Qunari Sten, whose passive features Aeden still struggled to read, though he suspected in some way he was deeply moved, possibly even impressed, by the display._

_At the front of the rows of people, Aedan's Mabari warhound Mufar had managed to find a way to slip between legs until he stood proudly, the envy of the other Mabaris in the palace, if only with his brilliant red kaddis that distinguished him as a surviving veteran of the Battle of Denirem. His stub of a tail wagged happily as he looked on admiringly. When Aedan's eyes wandered past the dog his entire body seemed to light up and he shook his head in anticipation of being pet._

_Mabari were not unfamiliar in the palaces and castles of Fereldan, indeed even the royal standard bore two brown hounds facing one another on their hind legs, but even in a kingdom where the dogs were as common sight as people Mufar stood out among them. To Aedan's surprise, however, another dog sat next to Mufar, a lean retriever that had none of the glow of his Mabari. There was something altogether unnerving when he looked at it and realized that its eyes were locked on his own, but its face looked heavy and dismayed, the way Mufar would look when he would be scolded by Aedan. _

_Most unsettlingly, Mufar turned to regard the retriever then offered an approving bark, earning him a glance from the retriever for only a moment before it turned its gaze back on Aedan. A cold and familiar feeling washed over him, but he dared to not allow his mind to wander to the possibilities. Instead he looked at Alistair at his side, who seemed equally unnerved by the impossibly familiar, but unrecognized hound. Perhaps sensing the four eyes regarding it curiously, the retriever shirked away into the crowd and disappeared – and Aedan let out a breath he did not realize he was holding._


	2. Chapter 2

Aedan summoned the entirety of his Keep to greet King Alistair. They stood in long rows with Teyrn Aedan at the head, Mufar at his side wagging that stub of a tail as he would occasionally glance between the fanfare and his master as though looking for some sort of clarification of the sights, the sounds and the smells. The knights of Castle Gwaren made up the first row. They were sometimes referred to as Wyvrn Knights for the symbol of the Teyrndom of Gwaren, a golden drake that crested their shields – but at Mancer's protest they had recently adopted the white wings of House Cousland to flank their wyvern. They remained like stone statues, giving in to none of the curious revelry at the idea of glancing King Alistair that had overcome the servants.

Teyrn Aedan preferred to stand alone, kept company only by his Mabari. He would soon be overwhelmed by the king and his retainers – the priestesses, the chanters, the advisers and the guards that could sometimes make it hard to even catch a glimpse of the king when he was supposed to be "alone". A miniature legion of soldiers filed into the main hall of Castle Gwaren, a practiced march that saw them step forward in pairs before dispersing and creating a tunnel of armored steel between Aedan's own guards and the king. He knew that this was not meant as a gesture of mistrust, but was a simple formality, a practiced procedure that had as much ceremonial value as actual practical security.

In a land where power flowed from the nobility to the king it was easy for a Teyrn to rationalize that the Maker could be on his side should he wish to order his guards upon their monarch – and so the king's guard was meant to protect as much from a lord's own retainers as from a crazed individual.

When the king's guards were completed there were two for any one of Aedan's own, an unmistakable display of power that Alistair would no doubt roll his eyes at. He was visiting not only a Grey Warden, but his dearest friend in his own home. Knowing Alistair if he could not feel comfortable here he would simply inquire as to the point of being king in the first place. As Aedan thought about it, a lot of things made him think that.

At last Alistair entered the main hall, his regal, pure silver armor still looking uncomfortable on him. He glanced at the man to his right, a tall, grey-bearded mage that was whispering something to a distracted and uninterested king. He tried to break away from the man's words with a glance at Aedan and a boyish, lifeless grin, eyes pleading for Aedan to do something to pull him away from the mage.

Finally Alistair seemed to lose his patience and turned a sudden scowl on the mage, who shirked away and seemed to shrink several sizes beneath his king. Alistair immediately looked back at Aedan with a proud and satisfied grin. When he finally got within steps of his Teyrn, Aedan bowed to his monarch respectfully, but when he rose he caught a wry look of disapproval from Alistair who simply grabbed him and pulled him into a hug.

"Enough of that," Alistair said dismissively when he let go of Aedan. "I've seen enough pomp on the road to make the Maker blush. Let's have a couple drinks and just talk."

Aedan wasn't so sure. Alistair had never officially visited Castle Gwaren before and he took his duties as king far seriously than any monarch before him. Something had to have been on his mind – something had to be more pressing than a simple want to "talk".

"You?" Aedan asked incredulously with a raised brow. "Drink?"

Alistair shrugged playfully. "New job, new perks, new habits. Come come, I need a rest off the road, let's talk."

That continued to unnerve Aedan. It had been a long journey from Denirem, why the sudden insistence? His expression left little doubt to his own confusion and concern and that was not lost on Alistair, who shyly looked down toward the ground, as though he could not face the scrutiny of his long time friend.


	3. Chapter 3

There had been something about Alistair's tone that had unnerved Aedan. The king had all but pleaded for a private audience with him, and he carried that defensive grin that had never actually suited his aim at deflecting an issue. It was an expression wholly without life, a physical plea for the person he was speaking to, imploring them to not press any further, knowing that he would undoubtedly yield out whatever secrets he carried. Surrounded by his entire household – and most importantly, Mancer – Aedan had let him off the hook for that moment, but he kept that card in his pocket to inquire about later.

The offer of drinks had been equally suspicious. Alistair always struggled to stomach his liquor – Aedan recalled many times that Oghren had succeeded in convincing the man who would be King to try to wash down a night's meal with a particularly potent brew, swearing by his ancestors that it was a "light" draft. Many laughs were had when Alistair would down the entire mug at the dwarf's urging and struggle to find his way back to his tent in the camp.

"I don't understand Oghren's love for the stuff," Alistair had confided in Aedan one night, "it tastes like fire wrapped in poison." Aedan had simply grinned into his own mug at that.

Alistair had intended to make good on his desire to speak in private, only to be derailed by a small coterie of advisers headed by the eager Mancer who insisted that he settle in his chambers first.

"You travelled all this way, if it was so urgent a message that it could not wait then you'd have sent a messenger," one of Alistair's retainers insisted haughtily when he began to follow Aeden to his dining hall. Alistair glanced at Aedan as though the Teyrn could save him from the prison of his own rule.

Aedan simply shrugged helplessly. "I'll have dinner prepared," he told him, as though that would act as any sort of consellation.

"Some lot we are," Alistair complained, "we can defeat a horde of abominations led by an ancient dragon but we're cuckolded by manners." He reached out and clasped Aedan's hand in both of his, his expression immediately becoming playful. "If I'm not back in an hour, send a rescue."

Aedan smirked and let him go, watching empathetically as the man was marched away like a prisoner.

The halls of Castle Gwaren seemed impossibly and unnaturally long as Aedan walked through them towards the dining hall. He instructed his servants to prepare a modest feast, which they did not attempt to hide their disapproval toward. This was the king, they reasoned, and he deserved only the finest.

"I know him," Aedan insisted, "he will want to feel like he's at home. Make us some chicken…" he thought about it a moment then smirked to himself, "and some of your lightest wine."

Aedan's butler did not seem to approve, but he did not disobey any further.

When he entered the dining hall, Aeden took the lesser chair at the southern end of the long dining table. Although not as terribly fond as Mancer of the various customs and affairs of high end etiquette, he had spent the majority of his life as the pup of Castle Cousland, manners had been an integral part of his life then, and such things were not lost on him now.

He folded his hands, crossing finger between finger as he waited for Alistair's arrival. Servants began preparing the dinner, which smelled delicious as always. An elf placed the fattest chicken he'd ever seen on a silver plate in the middle of the table. Goblets were placed at each of the many seats, a formality only, since Aedan neither expected or would permit guests outside of the obligatory personal guard of Alistair's. Whatever had brought him all the way from Denirem would be for his ears only – and he braced for the violent protests of Mancer.

He was courteous enough to not begin diving into the glazed chicken before Alistair arrived, but as the time began to drag on he took small, impatient sips of his wine, occasionally eyeing at the door expecting for the king to arrive at any moment. When an hour had passed he quietly mused at the concept of sending the promised rescue party – though he was pleased to see that it would not have to come to that when the door finally burst open and Alistair, looking the part of a man in the midst of some sort of argument, threw his hands up then shot a contemptuous stare back into the hall from which he came.

"I said alone!" he barked. The ancient and cracked voice of the mage who accompanied him tried to protest from beyond the door. "No, you being here does not mean alone. Alone means me and the Teyrn. Got it? Are we good? Are you following? Yes? Now shoo." He turned and hardened his expression. "Go on, shoo you little creature." Seemingly satisfied by what he saw, Alistair shut the door behind him and blew out a long sigh. He did his best to put on a smile to settle Aedan, though the churn in his gut made it impossible for the teyrn to be put at ease.

Alistair seemed to recognize the look and slid into the chair that was offered for him and took a quick sip of the wine. It was sweeter than any of Oghrain's liquors and he that very thought seemed to have occurred to him, as though he were expecting some sort of cruel joke by his old friend.

"The wine is still sweet as the girls of Denirem I see," he said with a flash of a smile. Aedan remained impassive.

Alistair shrunk a bit in his chair and gulped. "Local meat?" he asked, eyeing the glazed chicken in front of him. It was surrounded by diced potatoes, which were usually Aedan's favorite, but as he looked across the length of the table he found any sense of appetite disappearing.

The king was sitting at his table fumbling with jokes – there was bad news on the horizon.

Alistair reached for and plucked a small bit of potatoes for his plate, then helped himself to a drumstick after a tentative stare at Aedan to see if he would approve. He was buying time, Aedan knew, watching him as he eagerly awaited whatever dragged him all the way from the palace.

Alistair took a couple bites before finally blowing out a sigh and pushing the plate away dismissively, apparently as unable to stomach the food as Aedan.

"You know what's worst about being king?" he finally said to break the silence. Aedan cocked an eyebrow curiously and quietly bade him to continue. "Sure I can tell an army to go here and do that, and if I tell someone to bow they drop to their knees like I swung at them. But I've never been _given_ orders as much as I am now. You'd think that the king would get a little freedom, what with him ruling everything eh?"

Aedan smirked a bit, but it was an entirely soulless gesture. "What brings you all the way out here Alistair?" he asked, no longer able to take the waiting game.

The king grimaced a bit and reached down for a fork full of potato. "What?" he said before jamming the vegetable in his mouth. "It's been three years, I can't say hello to my fellow Grey Warden?"

Aedan narrowed his eyes. "It's been three years and I've not gotten so much as a hello. So no, you can't just say hello to a fellow Grey Warden without warranting at least a little suspicion."

Alistair swallowed the bite of food that came out as a guilty gulp. "I've been meaning to, you know. Maker, you don't know how quickly time flies when every day you have is occupied by something. Not even anything important just…things that make everyone around me feel better. I should have come sooner, I know.

"Eamon didn't make it any easier."

"I was sorry to hear about him…" Aedan said, his voice trailing off distantly. He had not known the Arl of Redcliffe as long as Alistair had – the man had acted as a surrogate father to him – but what in little time he had known him Aedan had grown a fondness for the wryly old noble. He had a good heart that was carefully tempered by a meticulous mind.

He had grown deathly ill in the past year and despite his best struggles the man's old heart had finally given out in the past month. Aedan had sent a mourning gift to Alistair as had been tradition, along with his best wishes, but he knew that it would have struck the king particularly hard – and so he had opted to give him the space he might need.

"I was sorry to hear of his passing," Aedan said quietly, as though to offer his condolences in too loud a voice would somehow dishonor Eamon's spirit or worse, disheavel poor Alistair.

True enough the king looked down at the table with a heavy gaze.

"The last time I spoke to him it wasn't…pleasant," he said in an equally quiet tone. "The issue of an heir came up, talking about Cailan and the civil war and all that…"

Aedan felt a small, nervous twitch tugging at the corner of his eye. He pursed his lips as he thought back on the night before the battle with the Archdemon – the heir that was spirited away by Morrigan the day after. He never fully forgave himself for allowing Alistair to go through with it, when the witch of the wilds had propositioned Aedan, her lover, her companion, and he had chosen the coward's way out: saving his life through the sacrifice of his friend and fellow Grey Warden.

"He wasn't happy that I didn't put up much of a fight about Morrigan…" Alistair said sheepishly, as though he were admitting some horrible deed to a parent. Aedan's eyes shot open widely and it was all he could do to keep from leaping to his feet in anger.

"What did you tell him?" Aedan demanded angrily, his fists trembling as they pressed against the table for leverage.

Alistair had the look of a man who not only knew his guilt, but felt it deeply.

"It slipped!" he pleaded. "I didn't…it wasn't intentional, I wasn't…he deserved to know." Alistair looked down at the table again as he struggled to find his resolve, then he looked back up sternly at Aedan. "Eamon has given me too much to let him go without knowing. And that's why I'm here now."

That last bit intrigued Aedan enough that the blistering white rage that began to assail the edges of his vision receded just enough for him to begin calming himself. He slinked back into his chair and looked at Alistair expectantly.

"He made it his mission in his final days to find out if there would be some sort of power struggle for the throne with Morrigan's…little hellspawn he called it. Oh he let me have it, let me tell you, any tongue lashings you have for me will pale in comparison to the intensity of his anger. But…" Alistair reached into his armor and withdrew a small piece of parchment and slid it across the table. "He found something. He wanted me to…do what was necessary for my throne but…I thought you should see it."

Aedan's heart sank as he reached across the table and plucked up the note, meticulously folded and showing that it had at one time been fastened by the seal of Redcliffe. He tore it open and read the words a thousand times before they registered.

_Target. Dark haired, lean figure, possibly traveling with child. Spotted, borderlands with Orlais along the Old Road, travelling in poverty. Scouts confirm, no doubts, probability is high._

The rest of the note contained meticulous directions to where he would find her, including such meticulous details that it lent a degree of doubt in Aedan's mind as to whether or not it truly was Morrigan: the woman was too crafty to allow a host of even the king's greatest spies to keep meticulous documentation of her eating, sleeping, and even bathing habits.

"This couldn't…" Aedan started, thinking that proof enough, but Alistair was quick to interrupt him.

"It's her," he said sullenly. "It's been confirmed."

Morrigan could never be that careless, he thought to himself again, trying to will away the reality that was in front of him. He crumpled the paper in his hand then dashed his eyes back up at Alistair, whose expression was as heavy as it was grim.

"She wanted to be found," the king said slowly, "that's why…"

"So you wanted me to do it," Aedan yelled suddenly, swinging a fist and throwing his goblet of wine across the room. He did not turn to watch it shatter, keeping his intense gaze on Alistair. "You couldn't just have one of your little lackeys you wanted me to drive in the blade."

"Aedan," Alistair responded, his voice indicating that he was genuinely hurt, "think about it. This is me you're talking about." He looked down again. "I'm giving this to you because…you needed to know. Eamon wanted her dead but…" he shook his head then looked back up, "go find her. She's your woman."

Teyrn Aedan Cousland looked at Alistair, his face riddled with confusion. "What about the potential heir and…"

"We'll worry about that another time. Go find your woman, bitch that she is. And tell her I have a crown, and if she was so smart, why couldn't she get one for herself."

Aedan forced a small, crooked smile, but it evaporated under the weight of his heart break. He ran his eyes a dozen more times across the lines.

Morrigan wanted to be found.

_The air was cold, tugging at the skin with tendrils that seemed to want to break in and chill him to his very bone. The Frostback Mountains were an impossibly cold place, which seemed somehow out of character to the dank, often times disgustingly humid lands of Ferelden. He had been there once before, climbing through ancient temples and forgotten villages in pursuit of the Urn of Andraste and even with a devoted, dragon worshipping cult the times had seemed somehow happier, easier then._

_They had been on a quest then in pursuit of an ancient relic carrying the remains of one of the greatest figures in history to save the life of a man integral to Ferelden's politics, an unlikely and motley team bound together in service of Aedan Cousland, the Grey Warden. For all of their trials, there was a comraderie and a sense of purpose to their mission that acted as a beacon in the darkness._

_This was completely different. Reports had made it back to Gwaren that Morrigan, the witch of the wilds, the daughter of Flemeth…Aedan's companion and lover had last been spotted travelling in this direction. Her stomach had been distended indicating that she were with child, but beyond the whisperings of villagers a month past the trail had gone cold – just like everything else in the Frostback Mountains._

_Aedan remembered the day of the Battle of Denirem, when Morrigan had, for the first time, surrendered herself and her better judgment to lean forward in his arms._

"_This will be the last time you see me," she promised him, her voice carrying a weight that he had never expected to hear from her, an affection that almost seemed morbidly out of place coming from her. "You know that."_

"_I'm coming after you," Aedan promised, squeezing her tight. Morrigan clenched her eyes against his chest._

"_Don't. You won't find me," she pleaded, as much for her own sake as his._

"_I will."_

_When word had come of her being spotted in the Frostback Mountains it would have taken an army to keep Teyrn Aedan Cousland from chasing after her – and it had been an army he had brought with him. Even now men were scouring the hills, looking in every conceivable cave, meadow, and tree for any clue that she had been there, any clue at all that they were at least on the right track._

_None surfaced._

_Aedan looked up, frustrated. His armor was covered head to toe in white powder and as he opened his palm it was immediately filled with free, slow falling snowflakes. He looked up at the sky as though it would present some sort of answer – then felt a sudden chill run down his spine when he saw a black raven sitting on a branch staring at him with an intense purpose that he could not have expected out of any animal. It turned its head at an impossible angle to regard him, then shuffled its perch on the high hanging branch._

_The intelligence of its gaze was deeper than even the spirited Mufar at his side, who looked up at the bird and gave a brief bark of disapproval. The raven glanced down at the Mabari, who shirked away a moment, then was all at once overtaken with a joy he had not seen in the hound for a long time. It wagged its small tail then dropped to all fours as though expecting some sort of treat to be thrown its way. The raven stopped its stare at the dog and looked back at Aedan._

"_Morrigan?" he asked breathlessly. The words carried on the air to the raven, who let out a long, angry _kaw_, before leaping into the air and disappearing into the night's blizzard. Aedan watched it for as long as his eyes could keep track of the disappearing figure._


	4. Chapter 4

Alistair understood the next day when Aedan could not see him. Mancer had been forced to think of some excuse, which had left the plump little man in a small fit of rage fitting of his stature, but the hollow and truthless words carried the message well to the king. Teyrn Cousland of Gwaren could not be seen because he had taken ill and hoped to find reprieve on the beaches of Ferelden. _I'm going after her._

Mancer did not get the chance to report the small smile that peeled at the edges of Alistair's mouth. By the time the news had reached the king, Aedan was already halfway to Lake Calenhad and would not slow his pace if the entire Darkspawn Horde were to rise up and try to stop him.

He had taken as few retainers as he could justify. Juland, the captain of his guard, had insisted on following him on the road, along with seven of his finest guards. It had been a fight to keep Mankirt, the magus of Castle Gwaren, from coming as well, but Aedan was in no mood to be argued with. The burden of his heart ache had been lifted all at once, replaced by a sudden need, a craving for the chase. Morrigan was out there somewhere and she had been craftily dropping small hints, yearning for him to chase after her.

And chase he would.

They stuck to the main road for the most part, staying in only the nearest inns, to the chagrin of Juland's men-at-arms. They were riding with one of the most powerful lords in Ferelden and were accustomed to nights spent in only the finest castles, surrounded by spirits and women, and they bore looks of disgust that suggested they were anticipating disease to be waiting for them in the straw hewn beds they were given.

As the hot air began to mellow and their skin became agitated by the warring contrast of cold air blown in from the mountains and the thick, humidity of the east, Juland pulled his horse alongside Aedan's, a stern look upon his face. They were giving the horses a moment to rest. In his haste, Aedan had not allowed them to bring replacements and if any of them were to go lame on the journey then they knew by the look in the lord's eyes that they would be left behind. It was imperative to insure they were watered, shoed and fed.

Juland looked out at the road a minute. "This is taking us perilously close to Orlais," he observed. Aedan nodded slowly, restless in his saddle, despite having been mounted on it for the better part of a week. "We cannot enter the empire's borders."

"If I command it-," Aedan started, but Juland cut him off.

"We will not permit you," he insisted harshly, the gravity of his tone leaving little room for debate, even from his liege lord. Aedan looked at him angrily. "Too much is at stake. You charged us with protecting you, my lord, and we cannot rightly do that if we cross the border. At your word I would gladly ride the entire garrison of Castle Gwaren into Orlais, burn a few villages, and bring back what women and riches we can. But there are nine of us in total and as one of two teyrns of Ferelden…you are too lucrative a ransom."

Aedan pursed his lips and prepared to respond, but in the face of the man's logic it was difficult to argue. "And how will you stop me without it being treason?" he demanded.

Juland shrugged. "Then it will be treason. But I will hang with the satisfaction of knowing I had done my duty."

Aedan smiled a bit and looked down. He patted the neck of his horse approvingly. For the first time the adrenaline of the chase was beginning to fade. "You're a good man Juland." He looked back up at the captain of the guard. "I cannot promise I won't go. We will have to see when we get to the village we are looking for."

"And what village are we looking for precisely, sire? I regret that you have given us nothing in the way of information."

"I understand that and for that I apologize." Aedan looked out across the road. "The village has no name as far as I am aware. But we are on a…" he thought about it for a moment. Juland was not Mancer – his intentions lay only in the performance of his duty, and he had never lied to the man. It was difficult to do so now. "We are on a mission for the king. We are to meet an agent of his majesty in that unremarkable hamlet we are riding to and we shall learn our destination from there. It is…incredibly sensitive and I apologize for the deception."

"Aye," Juland said, taking all of the words at their absolute face value, such was the loyalty and faith he had in his teyrn. It was not a complete lie, Aedan tried to tell himself, much of it was indeed true. Alistair had told him that one of his spies was waiting for them and he would be able to update the teyrn on Morrigan's latest movements. He spared Juland, however, of knowing that they were marching towards the daughter of a terror used to frighten children across the world – the woman he had known and loved, who very possibly bore with her the illegitimate child of their king.

He never forgave himself for that night and he doubted that he ever would. It did not surprise him that Morrigan had run from him with the child – he had betrayed her as much as he had betrayed himself, as much as he had betrayed Alistair…that was what he had told himself anyway.

But so many questions remained unanswered – questions he intended to find the answers to this time. She was close, he could feel it in his bones. He reached down and plucked his necklace out from under his tunic – the ring Morrigan had given him the first night they had dared to breach their feelings together still hung there. It was made of rosewood and was meticulously carved to show a variety of different animals. They would each illuminate, seemingly magically, though Aedan had never found any consistency to which animal was colored and which wasn't.

The day of Alistair's inauguration he had taken it off of his finger. Something drove it away from him, he had been overtaken with such a violent sense of regret and sorrow that he could hardly stand it and some animal instinct demanded that he taken it off. To his surprise, the moment it was removed from his finger the emotions disappeared – and he had never been able to bring himself to put it back on.

"With it," she had told him after giving it to him, her face scrunched in confusion and embarrassment, "I can tell precisely where you are."

In a way, he did not want her to know any more. It was a frail and useless war of emotions that he waged on himself. It seemed impossible to imagine that the woman even remembered him – what use was there in revealing his location at every hour of the day? All the same he looked at it now, holding it gently in his palms.

The remainder of the journey to the village was uneventful, putting an end to the hard ridden pace that had taken them to the far end of Fereldan in little more than two weeks. The village itself was entirely indistinguishable from any other he had seen. Save for the frost that had begun to collect on roof tops, it could have just as easily passed for Lothering before its fall to the Darkspawn during the Blight.

"See to the horses," he instructed Juland as he dismounted and looked eagerly about the town. "Also see to lodging. I'll catch up with you."

"Aye, my lord," Juland yelled out, taking his lord's horse by the reins and leading it away. Alistair had given no description as to his agent – Aedan assumed that the man would make his presence known when he spotted the teyrn. The tavern seemed as likely a place as any for a scoundrel and a spy of the king to be lurching. The occasional villager would give him an awed glance, some even bowing respectfully as he passed, but he paid them no heed.

Something was drawing him. Morrigan was close, he could feel it, could almost taste her in the air. He pushed the doors to the tavern open and looked about as though a simple glance would bring him the agent he was looking for. He growled in frustration. He had travelled as far as he could on his own and now needed whoever this agent was to continue any further and his patience for such things was not high, not with Morrigan, and all of her answers, so impossibly close.

He slid into a chair, deciding that the Teyrn of Gwaren would be impossible to miss for whoever the agent was…whenever it was he intended to arrive. At first the thought of a drink seemed an impossibly pleasant thing, though by the time the waitress had arrived to take his order he was already too agitated to entertain her for long, and batted his hand dismissively at her.

The door behind him opened and he turned, expecting to see Juland and his men-at-arms entering, which would have at least felt like progress, but he blew out a disdainful sigh when he realized it was simply an elf, probably a prostitute, and a free handed male companion.

Aedan let out a slight growl – even taking a moment to wonder what was coming over him – before turning back to his table, though he nearly leapt from his chair in surprise when he saw a figure sitting across from him. They were at least two heads shorter than Aedan, but their features were carefully masked by the shadows and a hood drawn over their face.

Aedan leaned forward a bit, hoping to catch a glance in a stray beam of light to no avail.

"Are you…?" he started, but was suddenly cut off by a wild, though quiet laugh.

"What? Not even a hug or perhaps more?" The voice was unmistakable Antivan, and Aedan sighed a bit to himself as he recognized the voice, then grinned when he realized just who the king's agent was. "Perhaps even a kiss, it has been so long, after all." Zevran lifted his head and showed an ivory toothed grin. "I hope you were not expecting someone less important."

"No," Aedan mused, "just someone a little taller."

"You wound me, my good friend," Zevran said, his tone heavy with exaggeration as he cupped a hand over his heart. "What brings you this far west?"

"You know precisely what does," Aedan said curtly, having no patience for games. "I came here for you."

"Oh I see," Zevran chuckled, "so much flattery, and here I thought you were here purely for business."

The sly elf had lost none of his charms on his travels, Aedan observed. He should have known that that would be Alistair's agent of choice – and all at once he found himself warmed at the familiar company. This was becoming less and less of a mission of personal desire, he realized, and becoming a quest to reunite their old band. The old Antivan assassin was far more a welcome sight than he had ever anticipated.

"All joking aside, yes, I know why you are here, and in a way I have good news."

"In a way?" Aedan asked incredulously. Zevran gave a nod that was far more grave and serious than he had ever seen out of the former Crow.

"Yes. Your woman is here, I have seen her with my own eyes." He gestured over his shoulder. "She is in the wilds, crossing constantly over the border with Orlais. She has been moving, like a wisp this one, always darting this way and that. It was good Alistair sent me, as I assure you no one else could have kept the trail."

"I sincerely doubt you could have kept it if she hadn't wanted you to," Aeden observed sullenly.

"Perhaps it is true, and thus reaffirming the decision by sending someone she is comfortable with, I think."

Aedan nodded slowly, though he found that his patience was beginning to deteriorate again. "When can we go see her?"

"Tonight," Zevran said, "not a moment sooner. It is easier to track her then, why, I do not know, but it is what it is."

It was still a few hours to nightfall yet, Aedan thought to himself with a grimace. Despite his heart racing a thousand miles a second however, he knew it would be for the best. He needed to wash and he needed to prepare, physically, mentally, and emotionally if he hoped to confront her.

What would he say? What would he do? What did he hope to accomplish?

He had none of these answers – so how could he possibly hope to find the answers he so desperately craved from Morrigan? He did not know, and it did not matter.

He rose from his chair. "I have to…" he started, though the words were lost in his throat.

Zevran waved a hand through the air. "Think nothing of it," the elf said, "go, come and find me when you are ready to go."

_Leliana slipped into the teyrn's quarters, her gown as modest as any robes worn by the chanters, but hanging to her body in a way that would not betray her intentions. It was obvious with each measured step what she was after, what she craved, and if even these glaring hints were lost on Aedan Cousland, the look in her eyes would inform him. Freshly returned from his search of the Frostback Mountains, and his patience had worn to a fearful thin. The servants would not approach him – not out of fear like they might have to another lord, but out of respect for the sorrow that hung over him like a cloud._

_Leliana was different. She tucked an orange lock of hair behind her ear as she approached him, knowing that he would not send her away, that her company would not augment the anguish that was so obviously lying in his heart. She found her suspicions confirmed when Aedan looked up at her, her breath catching in her throat a moment as she saw the tension ease away from him._

_There had been a mild celebration at Castle Gwaren, though it had broken her heart to watch as the excited servants and retainers who wished only to welcome their lord home were startled by the way he had cut the revelry short with a thrown vase that shattered like his heart. She could see the pain that he was carrying with him, and she was determined to ease it._

"_It is good to have you back, my lord," she said, her tone measuring his reaction. His eyes did not falter from her._

_He was sitting on the edge of his bed and had not even bothered to remove the thick, plated armor he had worn out on his journey. Without invitation, she sat next to him, then carefully began to close the distance between them._

"_I am deeply sorry your journey did not end well," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder, savoring the idea of touching him again. She had always been friendly with him – a quick embrace here, a peck on the cheek there, but as their war against the Darkspawn had drawn to a close she found that she was craving those touches in a way she never had before, only to watch jealously as he would pull away, his eyes wandering toward the tent on the far end of the camp occupied by Morrigan._

_Aedan did not respond to her, she would have thought that he did not even realize she was there if he had not spared her a quick glance before looking down at the floor._

_In her journeys she had learned that little could cure a man of his ills like a woman who presented herself at the right time. She tried to tell herself that it was not selfish opportunism, but a genuine interest in mending his heart that brought her here, but it was a fable no more true than some of the legends she would tell in taverns before having met him._

_She tried to be a little more aggressive, closing the distance between them so that her body was pressed against his, though she recoiled a moment when she realized he was not reacting from the touch._

"_You…miss her don't you?" Leliana asked quietly, any sense of shame at the rejection suddenly disappearing from her mind._

_Aedan looked up at her, his expression long and sorrowful._

"_You really did love her…"_

"_Yes…" was the only thing the teyrn of Cousland had said to her that night. When she reached out to embrace him, the way she would in camp, the gesture of a friend and a compatriot, it was the only time he had shown any signs of life that night._


	5. Chapter 5

Juland had been left back in the village to guard the horses – or that was what he had been told anyway. In truth, Aedan had no idea how close to the Orlesian border they would actually go, or if they would actually cross into it. It would be best, he decided, if it had just been him and Zevran. The elf moved gracefully, nimbly, in a way that seemed impossible even for someone of his small stature and lithe frame.

Aedan was led down the forest paths, so deep that any sense of returning to the village on his own would be a fool's errand. The further they went, the more alike every inch of the forest began to look. The trees were completely indistinguishable from one another, the ground carried the same thickness of fallen twigs and leaves – for all Aedan knew they were simply running in circles.

But he trusted the assassin – and as a lad Aedan had been weaned on the stories of Elven connections to the forest. Whether they were true or not, the very idea that such stories existed were comfort enough for him.

Zevran seemed completely at home, enough so that he even looked impatient when Aedan struggled to keep up with him. If he had any complaints, however, he was wise to keep them to himself. The teyrn was completely lost in their pursuit, taking his eyes off Zevran only long enough to glance down at the shimmering ring he was wearing around his neck. It was shimmering a low, violet glow beneath his shirt, and he would occasionally reach up to touch it, the breath darting from his lungs whenever he would do so.

At long last, after countless miles, Zevran stopped and rested against a tree at the base of a steep incline of dirt and foliage. He gestured forward.

"Up there," he said at last, "she has made camp there for the better part of three weeks. Unless she has caught wind of us and moved on, which is I admit a distinct possibility, she will be up there."

Aedan took in a sharp breath and looked at Zevran, as though hoping for some sort of approval or encouragement.

"Your woman is up there, my friend," he said, sensing his old friend's need for some sort of affirmation, "go to her."

Aedan sighed again and pulled the chain out from around his neck. He tugged on it until it snapped and let the ring slide out into his palm, then quickly removed the glove of his left hand. With his eyes shut as though expecting some sort of sudden blow, he held his breath and slipped it onto his finger.

All at once he was overrun with a feeling of nervousness, anxiety, despair and fear. The emotions came on so heavily that he staggered back several steps, until Zevran placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Are you alright?" he asked with a voice heavy with concern.

Aedan shook his head against the dizziness that was overcoming him. The emotions seemed distant and foreign, they did not originate in him. He looked over at Zevran and tried an unconvincing nod.

"I'll be alright, just…don't follow me," he said, glancing down at the man's hands which were wrapped cautiously around his daggers.

"If you're sure…"

"I'm sure," Aedan said firmly. He looked down at the ring around his finger. The figure of the wolf was lit a bright blue now.

He took another breath to steady himself, then pressed forward, climbing the hill and leaving Zevran behind him. He tried not to think about what awaited him up there – instead focusing on a single step at a time. Despite the hill being only a few hundred yards high, it felt as though he were climbing a mountain.

When he finally reached the top, the trees gave way to a meadow that opened out to the forest below, with a perfect view of an ominous full moon that illuminated the tall grass he was now walking through. A small camp was in the middle of the clearing with a firepit that had only recently been stomped out. He looked down at the ring again, at the glowing wolf and knew that she was near – knew that he was in the right place. Even if his mind could think of a million excuses why this was not her camp, something in his heart simply whispered "Morrigan".

A sudden howl split the air – a wolf crying out to the moon. He reached down and unsheathed his sword in a single motion, bracing himself for a fight. The trees and bushes on the far end of the camp shuddered and he stepped back onto his left foot. As he expected a wolf leaped out, though he seemed far more surprised at it, then it was at him. It leaned down on its paws and examined him, its eyes glowing a strange purple.

Aedan looked down at his ring, then back up at where the wolf once stood, only to be replaced by the dark haired figure of Morrigan. She tilted her head at him, her eyes glazed with tears as she gritted her teeth.

"I told you not to chase me," she said angrily, though her tone did not carry the weight of any true frustration.

"And I told you I would anyway," Aedan bit back. The sword was becoming heavy in his grip and he loosened his fingers around it.

"Yes…" she said quietly, looking down at the ground, as though she could not stand to look at him. She turned and looked out at the trees, then up again at the moon. "I always knew you would."

Aedan Cousland had spent the better part of three years looking for her, he had entire speeches and tomes of questions to ask her, but as he looked at her form bathed in the moonlight no words would come to him. Instead he simply fought the urge to run out and scoop her in his arms, to drag her back to Castle Gwaren and pretend that this whole sordid thing was one, long nightmare that could be put past them.

He knew it was a bard's tale at best, but he could not deny what his heart yearned.

"I suppose you want answers," she said languidly, as though it was difficult for her to speak. "Unfortunately I have none."

"Why did you run away?" he rasped – if he could only have one answer, he thought, let it be this.

She turned to face him, hardening her gaze. "Did I not tell you I would? Did you take me for a liar?"

"I took you for the woman that loved me."

That seemed to set Morrigan back and she chewed desperately on her lower lip before steeling herself once again.

"I told you it would come to this, did I not? I tried to protect us, to protect you, as much as myself. But you would not let it come to that. You stubbornly persisted when I was ready to simply cut it loose before it came to this point. Now…we're here. This, Aedan. This is where love takes us."

"Yes," he agreed stubbornly, "it will lead me to the end of the world to find you. That is what love is."

"Stupid man," she grimaced before lurching forward and grabbing at him, pressing her lips against his in a fiery and impassioned kiss. There was nothing else he could do, he felt his entire sense of being overwhelmed with the need to return her kiss, and he pulled her body against his. When she pulled away, he noticed that tears were beginning to stain her cheeks. "You're too selfish."

"So are you," Aedan shot back.

"Well," Morrigan agreed wryly, "'tis what it is."

"Where is the child?" he demanded suddenly, causing her body to go rigid to his touch. She pulled away and took several steps back.

"It is safe," she said carefully, hiding the child's gender. "It is being taken care of. Is that why you are here?" She narrowed her eyes dangerously, like a mother cat whose litter had been threatened. "Did Alistair…"

"Alistair told me where you were. I'm here for you."

Morrigan took a moment to consider those words, chewing on them long and hard. "I'm not going back," she warned him, her tone becoming all at once dangerous.

"What's out here for you? What can't I provide? If you didn't want me to find you, why did you all but scream where you were, knowing I'd look for you?"

"I…" she stammered, "I have no answer for that, in truth. I…I've missed you. I lo-," the words were cut off in her throat and she looked angrily at the ground, unable to force the words out of her mouth. "It was a foolish thing to do. I'm sorry. I may be Flemeth's daughter, but despite all the tales they tell, I am only human, after all, prone to my own weaknesses."

Aedan shook his head. "I'm bringing you back."

"To what end? To kill my child so that that fool has no rival for his throne? Or is it to domesticate me? Will I just be another Mabari, dimwitted and kept out of my natural habitat so that you can feel your live enriched? Hm? And what if I told you to come with me? What then?"

Aedan smiled. "Then I'd come."

"You'd…" Morrigan frowned, not expecting that answer. "Why do you make everything so difficult?"

"All of this," Aedan continued, gesturing at the wilds around them, "you don't need this. Your mother spent a life time telling you you did. You need me, like I need you. That's all that matters."

Morrigan let out a sigh and wiped the tears from her eyes, then looked at him again with a hardened jeer that indicated that she was through arguing. "You are intent on bringing me back, aren't you?"

"I'm not leaving here without you," Aedan promised.

"Foolish, foolish man," she stammered. "Stupid, foolish man. You've been nestled up with Alistar too long." Her tone was rising angrily. "I suspect there's only one way to keep you out of the trouble you are so blindly running into."

"I don't…" before Aedan could continue, Morrigan's form changed before his very eyes, taking on the shape of a wolf once more. She let out a feral, angry growl, causing Aedan to take a cautious step back. He tightened his grip on his sword, knowing what she intended to do. "I'm not leaving without you."

Morrigan lurched back on her paws and leapt forward, grasping her former lover by the throat in a single motion and toppling him backward onto the ground as he tried frantically to defend himself with his sword.


	6. Epilogue

Teyrn Aedan Cousland tumbled back. Whether it be out of surprise or an unwillingness to raise his sword aggressively against the woman he loved, Morrigan did not know, but it needed to end. It all needed to end right now. When she felt the soft flesh of his throat between her jaws, she pressed in the hopes that he would understand that she was serious – and when he struggled she mournfully pressed harder.

There was a long and painful struggle as Aedan beat his free hand against her side desperately until any sense of him had faded and he was reduced to his most primal form, struggling for life. In a single motion she jerked her jaws and with a snap it was over, her lover was dead. She gracefully released her bond to her wolf form and turned back into the form he had been so familiar with, the woman that had shared that one night in his tent with him so many years ago. Her mouth was trickled with her lover's blood and as she clenched her eyes shut to try to fight back the tears, she felt them wrap and twist with the blood on what had moments ago been her maw.

The stupid, stupid man, she thought as she rose and regarded him. She looked down at the ring on his finger. He'd kept it. All these years he'd kept it. It was over now, she told herself, she did what had to be done, though she could not take her eyes away from the ring, the glow of the wolf having since been snuffed out with its masters death'.

She let out a long sob, trying to keep herself from wailing like some weak, old woman, but she knew that it was a useless gesture. Instead she turned, the sooner she put him behind him, the sooner she could get over the weakness of his selfish attachment. As Morrigan began towards her tent however she doubled over and fell to the ground in pain. Her side seemed to be on fire and she placed a hand there to try to figure out why – wincing when she brought her hand back and realizing that it was covered in thick, red blood.

He had cut her. The wound was deep, but she would not know if it was beyond her magic until she had had the chance to clean and examine it. That brought the memories of the battle, if it could even be called that, back to the forefront of her mind. She slowly crawled towards her tent, planning to grapple with her supply of elfroot, fumbling through bags and jars as she did so. In frustration she picked up a large jar of elixir and threw it so hard it shattered against a rock, then let out another anguished cry.

No, she told herself at long last. She slowly climbed back to her feet and looked back at the broken, dead form of Teyrn Aedan Cousland, slain at her own hands. She had never said the words to him, she realized, those three words that he had travelled thousands of miles pursuing her to hear. He deserved better than what she'd done to him, she realized. So much better.

Sighing to herself, she looked down at the wound one more time. The blood was beginning to freely flow now, creating a small pool at her feet. It didn't matter she realized. With a laugh, she thought of what Mother would tell her angrily if she could see her now.

Morrigan slowly crawled back to the ruined body of Teyrn Aedan Cousland.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him behind her tears. She slid her body until she rested atop him and kissed his dead lips slowly, her tears now running against his cold face. "You did not deserve this, my love."

With a long sigh she rested her head against his shoulder. "I love you," she said before she closed her eyes and prepared the long sleep against him.


End file.
